Chapter 3 A Mistake
A Mistake
Lily-Anne
After two exhausting flights, we finally land at Heathrow Airport.
Made it, I text Mum and Ellenor.
It’s raining outside the dark cabin window, because of course it is.
Guitar case in hand, I follow the shuffle of passengers into the terminal, humming Placebo’s English Summer Rain under my breath.
My suitcase trundles behind me as I begin the long trek through customs. I consider tossing the magazine into a bin, but I change my mind at the last second and shove it in my backpack—a small badge of resistance.
I duck into a bathroom and emerge with a fresh shirt, but the ripped jeans stay, even if they’re a little ratty. I’m a musician—scruffiness adds character.
But then I see him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with side-swept coffee-brown hair, he’s wearing an expensive blazer over a dove-grey shirt, navy slacks, and scuffed boat shoes. He radiates an effortless kind of sophistication, and it suddenly hits me—who he is and the sheer weight of his reputation.
I fidget with my cardigan, feeling far too unpolished to approach.
Until I spot the cardboard sign in his hands. LILY-ANNE is handwritten in large, neat letters with a marker. It looks so absurd with his formal attire that I can’t help but smile.
“Brandon, hi!” I call as I approach.
His eyes meet mine, dark brown and gentle, and something inside me jolts.
He doesn’t mirror my enthusiasm, though he offers a tentative smile.
“Lily-Anne—welcome,” he greets, my name softened by his calm British lilt.
God. His voice.
I forget how to breathe.
I wait for him to say something more.
When he doesn’t, something in my chest dips. I’m suddenly aware I expected him to carry this moment—and he isn’t.
I fumble for words. “You have a sign.”
He glances down, as if remembering he has it.
“Yes. Your mother insisted,” he explains dryly, tucking it under his arm.
“Oh. Well, I would have recognised you anyway.”
I remember too late that he never sent me any photos of himself. Heat flares in my cheeks as I realise I’ve just admitted to looking him up online.
He blinks, clearly drawing the same conclusion, but he has the grace not to comment.
“How was your flight? Or flights?”
“Great,” I say quickly, relieved to seize the change in topic. “Tiring.” I push my hands into my cardigan pockets, finally remembering my manners. “Thank you so much for coming to get me.” My voice is embarrassingly breathy as I add, “It’s…good to finally meet you.”
“Likewise.”
For a few impossible seconds, we just…stand there, looking at each other, the crowd swelling around us. I’m grateful he’s not rushing, like he knows I need a moment to breathe before being whisked off to some far side of the country.
He gestures to the guitar case by my side. “Is that the Cole Clark?”
I freeze. “How do you know?”
I’m sure he didn’t Google me. I’m not on social media.
“Your father mentioned you chose it together. Quite a few years back. He said you play it beautifully. He seemed proud.”
Something catches in my throat. That word, proud, burns in my chest. I look down at the case, unable to meet Brandon’s eyes.
“It was a birthday gift—my sixteenth,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “It was my principal instrument at uni.”
“A faithful companion.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more. My chest aches with gratitude. Like Brandon’s just handed me a memory of Dad. Something small but precious.
He glances at the case again, then at me. “Have you been able to play it? Since you wrote your email?”
“I haven’t even tried.” It stings to admit I’ve made no progress since I first reached out to him a couple of weeks ago. “I mean, I’ve tried—but every time I think about taking out my guitar, I just…”
“Feel nauseous?” he asks.
“Yes. I know it’s ridiculous. I just feel a bit stuck. Creatively.” I blow out a breath. “I want to write music, the way I used to. But now I can’t even play.”
He studies me. “You seem to be putting yourself under quite a lot of pressure.”
I huff a laugh. “Pressure? It’s been weeks since Toby. I’ve had plenty of time to get my act together.”
“Toby?”
“Oh. He’s my ex.” I silently curse the slip. “We broke up recently—but it doesn’t matter.”
He nods, the silence stretching between us until I can’t stand it.
“I’m hoping I can get over this creative block with your help,” I add. “And I know what you’re probably thinking, but I swear, it’s not a confidence thing. It’s more of a…”
Oh God. It’s definitely a confidence thing.
I scramble to pivot. “The thing is, I used to be obsessed with music. Still am, really. Slept with my guitar beside me like it was a teddy bear. Had teddy bears too, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
I draw a quick breath. The amused way he drawled it, ob-viously, like it’s two separate words, sends an unsettling shiver through me.
Also, oof. Did I seriously just tell a grown man—a stranger, basically—about my teddy bears?
I wish I could call the words back.
“So…?” He leans a fraction closer, and the crowd behind us blurs. A faint whiff of cologne reaches me, something deep and masculine, with that clean, earthy scent that lingers after rain, throwing my thoughts off-balance. “What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“You said it’s not a ‘confidence’ thing. What kind of thing is it?”
“It’s…complicated. I’ve lost the drive lately. I honestly don’t even know if I want to play. I just…want to want it again. If that makes sense.”
“It does.”
He seems so calm, while I feel like a flustered schoolgirl.
“Do you play?” I ask, eager to get off the topic of me.
His lips curl. A flash of teeth, a hint of smile lines. “Sort of.” He gestures towards the exit. “Shall we get going?”
I nod, but something twists in my chest. He didn’t really answer my question.
He reaches for my guitar. “Here—allow me.”
Panic spikes, and I jerk the case back.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s just…it’s what I have left of Dad.”
A shadow flickers across his face. Like sympathy, but deeper. Then he cocks his head at my suitcase, and I hand it to him with a sheepish ‘thanks’.
“Of course. The car is this way. Ready?”
“Yes. Please.” I could really, really use some air.
As we walk, I open my mouth to ask what he meant by sort of playing music—because I’m suddenly hoping he does. It might help to be around someone who can still play.
“Do you really think he’ll be able to fix you, when I couldn’t?” Toby whispers, cool and smug. “But go ahead. Follow him, just like you followed me. See where it gets you.”
I clamp my mouth shut and clutch my guitar like a life raft, praying I’m not making another mistake.
Brandon’s not Toby. I know that. He’s not trying to control me—he’s offering help, and it’s strictly professional.
But just like back then, when I allowed Toby to lead me out of that dark lecture hall…
As Brandon leads the way, I follow.